Monday, March 15, 2010

Some of my favorite devastatingly talented blog pals and I recently entered the 2010 Erma Bombeck Writing Competition, Humor Category - Global. I’ll kill the suspense right here for you: None of us won. Not even one Honorable Mention among us.

I was a tidy single person. By “tidy,” I mean that my obsessive orderliness bordered on pathological. By “bordered,” I mean I combed the fringe out on my area rugs three times a day. The shirts in my closet were arranged by color and sleeve length. I used a lint roller every morning on the cat. When friends were coming over I would purposely mess something up in my apartment so that I would not seem crazy, of course proving the exact opposite.

Then, I got married. To a man. Something changed. By “something," I mean everything. While I was thrilled when I realized that my sweet husband could fit all of his worldly possessions into the trunk of a Honda Civic, I had not anticipated how time consuming it would be to find just the right place in our décor for a Smithsonian-worthy collection of Star Wars action figures and 28 pit-stained rock band t-shirts. Luckily, he found my compulsive habits (mostly) amusing. I eased up a little. I replaced the rugs with new, fringe-less ones. He started hanging his damp towels back on the rod. We were in love. We worked it out.

Then, we had a baby boy. These baby types require a good amount of gear. By “good amount,” I mean our living room suddenly took on the appearance of a cyclone ravaged Toys R Us. Over time, I adapted to living in a baby blue landfill. I developed new coping systems involving daily schedules and baby wipes that we purchased by the palette. I eased up some more. I stopped re-caulking the bathtub every month. My spice cabinet fell out of alphabetical order. I was mostly all right with that. The baby had dimples and a throaty laugh. My label maker sat unused in the drawer.

Then, our little guy started potty training. By “potty training,” I mean he did a free fall with his business whenever the need arose. We played games called “Please Tell Me That’s Just Chocolate In Your Hair,” and “No, I Mean It, Where Is That Smell Coming From?” My china bowls filled with potpourri were replaced by economy-sized bottles of industrial disinfectant. Our little man was growing up and we got to help. I stopped moving the heavy furniture every time I vacuumed.

I have traded in the loneliness of pristine linoleum for a home with signs of life and a bottomless sink of dirty dishes. I am happy about it. By “happy,” I mean really, really happy.

13 comments:

*applause applause* Got here by way of Anna's loser of a blog. How nice that you all formed this little community of losers. May I join? You rocked that entry. Shame on the uptight judges in Centerville, OH.

I'm sure (cough) those judges are (cough) fine people but I just heard Erma turning in her grave. I love this and it should have won. You are amazing and I'm going to go read all your devastatingly funny friends work now. I strive to have an organized closet.

An acquaintance dropped by unexpectedly one day and came in the house, which was littered with the debris of four kids. When I apologized for the mess, she said, "It's ok. Your house looks like a fun place to live." I wanted to hug her. At some point in my life, I will have a pristine home again. But for now I'll enjoy the mess.